The Sanctuary of Time
by Season Siksbee
Summary: Having just been given a brief reprieve from his forced regeneration, the Second Doctor encounters a familiar face from his past.


Illumination fills the TARDIS console room, the fluorescence powder glowing from within its milky white walls providing the proper lighting where no fixtures are situated. Basking in this almost artificial sunlight, The Doctor, lounges in a rather comfortable cushioned chair in said console room. He glances up at the center control column as it rises and sets continuously. He lets out an exasperated sigh to himself, his black moppy hair flying up a tad in the wake of his release of breath. He lowers his weary head and continues writing in his 500 Year Diary, mumbling aloud the words he transcribes to the parchment.

'Arguably, there comes a point in every living being's existence when one must rise to the whims of government. Time Lords are no different, as I've come to discover the way most insidious. I've come to find myself drafted into service by the Celestial Intervention Agency, not for a war of great importance, political or otherwise, but instead as a measly errand boy! They have been quite good about these missions they've been dispatching me on, for the most part. As now, I haven't the slightest clue what my next task entails, nor where or when it shall be. Sometimes their typical "non-interference" state of mind seems all too literal!'

The Doctor raises his head once more, taking another glance at his longtime dwelling. His dark eyes a bit somber, as he lowers his head to finish the entry with the prevailing through on his ancient mind.

'It gets quite lonely in this trusty old junkheap lately. I'm used to so many things, the sound of the TARDIS gears churning, the rhythmic hum of the engine, the slight echo against the walls. But I'm dreadfully not used to traveling by my lonesome, for such an extended period of time. And when a Time Lord such as myself can see mere weeks to months as an eternity, something is entirely wrong indeed. '

As he continues his solitude musings, the Doctor's attention slowly turns to the control console, as the TARDIS appears to be finally landing. The extended flight time seems a tad abnormal, but with an outside force such as the CIA maneuvering him around time and space, abnormality should take precedence. Placing his Diary down on the arm of the chair and standing up, the Doctor quickly darts to the console controls, opening the exterior viewer to get a glimpse at the location of touchdown. Expecting a hostile alien world or at least his home away from home known as the Earth, the Doctor is surprised to find a vast expansive metallic structure on the viewing screen. The decor is slightly tarnished, with many of the wooden wall panelings torn asunder, wires and circuitry hanging out frantically, as if some great creature had rampaged violently within. Before entering the unknown, having learned a bit from the past, the Doctor takes precaution before exiting the TARDIS. He puts on his large woolly coat, making sure that his Sonic Screwdriver is nestled in reach. 'When one can never been too certain of his surroundings,' the Doctor notes to himself, 'One must be certain of his possessions!'

The short, comedically dressed Time Lord steps out from his TARDIS, one foot poking out from the blue police box's door. The Doctor slowly inches his entire body out, giving a good, wide-open eyed investigation of his location. The area remains as he saw previously, a copper coloured room, its design almost resemblive of the Victorian Age on Earth. It's a design the Doctor finds most pleasing to his eyes, as he takes the initiative and runs his hands across the wooden paneling. His hands soon reach some of the loose wiring scattered about, rubbing the circuitry between his steady fingers. The Doctor blinks his eyes a few times, his attention coming upon the strange manufacturing of the wires, a very peculiar design indeed, one which he knows all too well. Dropping the wiring in a hurry, the Doctor begins to make his way through the slightly darkened corridors of the structure. The absence of any lightning fixtures confirms what he was led to believe, and he scours the ever expanding hallways of this strange place, searching for another living being.

'I'm inside another TARDIS!', he realizes aloud.

The Doctor is a bit astounded, believing up to this point that such a feat would be impossible. Impossible, nay, now it seems more like improbable, but now having happened to him. He plans to get to the bottom of this matter without haste, continuing his journey into this empty TARDIS. Despite the odd decoration and design, he believes he's sure of what type model TARDIS it is, and if his guess is correct, the console room is as good a place as any to start. The trail of trashed paneling comes to an end at a large door, leading to what he's sure is the main console room for this TARDIS. A quick tug on the handle confirms what he suspected, whomever is still alive on board must be hiding from something, or someone. The Doctor reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wooden Recorder.

'Now is not the time for songs!', the Doctor grumbles to himself.

Placing the Recorder back in his pocket, his fingers soon snag the intended target, his Sonic Screwdriver. Holding it carefully against the door handle, the Doctor turns it on, the Sonic Screwdriver whirs loudly as it unlocks the tightly sealed door in but a moment. Opening with a loud creak, giving the impression that it had been shut for a good extended amount of time, the console room door slides ajar with help from the Doctor. Cautiously peeking his head around the corner, the Doctor calls out for anyone inside.

'Greetings! I mean you no harm, fellow Time Lord... ah, wherever you are. Please excuse my intrusion and hope incredibly that you are of decent attire', the Doctor speaks, his voice echoing softly against the walls.

No answer is heard calling back, prompting the Doctor to continue his entrance into the console room. Its arrangement is unlike most TARDIS' he's accustomed to, a narrow passageway leads into the larger console room itself, with other slim hallways surrounding it. Still, the superficial design is that much like one found in the Victorian Age, and he can't help but give a slight grin to the owner's sense of taste. Stepping into the room, foot by foot, the Doctor scans the area for signs of life. The room is as dark as the rest of the structure, but enough light gleams so as to give attention to the large, breathing heap atop the console control column.

'Ahem... sir?', the Doctor asked what he believed to be a living being, though gave care enough to back up from within range should it be revealed as a monstrous beast. 'Sir... or Madam, if it were... could you please give me a sign as to your consciousness?'

The Doctor unknowingly ceases his careful attitude and wanders too close to the ominous shape huddled atop the brass, copper, and wooden plated console. His arm treading outward towards the apparently breathing bundle, slowly. Slowly until it is instantly snatched up by an arm thrusting from within the heap, the misshapen ball of cloth becoming revealed as that of a scraggily man hunched over. A beast would be more true a term, the Doctor's surprise and shock turning into revulsion as his sinus senses catch the foul smell emanating from the creature clenching his arm tightly.

'Blasted illusions, delusions, phantoms! Leave me be to my sleep, for Pete's sake!' The man screamed at the Doctor.

The Doctor ignored the scent of uncleanness as best he could, turning his own eyes to that of the man, or what was once man, also as best he could. The man's hair had grown over extensively, as had his beard, showing signs of unmaintenance over a long period of time. His angry eyes strained between the long raggedy strands of dark hair, the Doctor's own eyes rapidly following the strands downwards and inspecting the attire the beast man is adorned in. The Doctor recognizes the torn and tattered robe, the scant remains of a skullcap atop his head, and the sandals on the beast man's feet. The connections of everything becoming painfully clear to him.

'You... You're the Monk, that meddlesome fellow I encountered so long ago!', the Doctor's speech pattern generally light, in respect to his position of staring into the mouth of madness. The Monk was another Time Lord and occasional enemy the Doctor had met a few times prior. They hadn't crossed paths in such a long time, the Doctor had almost completely forgotten about him.

'Augh... and you're no illusion, are you? You're a real person, after all this time, another creature?!', the man's anger turning to manic joy.

He releases his firm grip on the Doctor's arm, only to take both his own mighty arms and wrap them around the Doctor's person. The Doctor, repulsed, returns the hug with faint reprise, patting the Monk on his back, or at least trying, as the amass of hair down his back making it hard to touch any part of his robe. The Monk lets out a few sobs of glee, to which the Doctor can only respond with forced snickering.

'There, there. Why don't we just sit down and talk about whatever has been troubling you?', the Doctor proposed, motioning the Monk to sit on one of the small set of steps leading down to the main console itself.

'No... no, that's all right', the Monk's demeanor suddenly shifting, 'The only thing troubling me is you, Doctor'!

'Hmm. So, you've figured me out just as easily, eh? I would figure a regeneration would mask appearances better than a new hairdo', the Doctor says, trying to refrain from playing into the Monk's game of hatred.

'This is all your fault, you know', the Monk sternly pointing out to the Doctor.

'What, your lack of a comb and scissors? Last I recall, I swiped a Directional Control Unit from you, Monk, not grooming items', the Doctor jokes, while slowly shifting his body in the vicinity of the way he came in.

'Exactly, Doctor. You who are so righteous in your helpful, selfless ways. You who are so above me, yet presume to meddle in time just as I. You are to blame for my predicament!', the Monk grunts. 'Had you not taken it upon yourself to rid me of such a necessary component, my TARDIS would not have malfunctioned! I would still have the ability to rematerilze!'

The Doctor chuckles softly. 'And what do you suppose I do about that? I could attempt to fix the problem as best my ability, but from the looks of this place, you've had considerable trouble in that department', the Doctor glancing at the dismantled wiring in some of the surrounding walls. 'That does not look to be the work of a sane, calm, rational man. None of which I've known you to be, though nonetheless, just how long have you been trapped between dimensions?'

'I... I do not know', The Monk's anger and spite giving way to his overwhelming sense of loss and confusion. 'It has been long. So long that I became enraged for a time, desperately searching for a fail-safe. Something within this entire infernal machine that could either halt my never-ending journey, or at least end my miserable existence. Do you, Doctor, have any idea what it is like to spend an immeasurable period in solitude? Of course you don't! You and your infernal companions!'

The Doctor's grimace gave way to compassion, sympathy growing for his onetime rival. 'You'd be surprised at how parallel our existences are, lately', the Doctor sighs, lowering his head.

'Yes...', the Monk's mood crawling into full swing, his fists balling up and his blood boiling, '.. but that doesn't matter much to you, does it? You put me in this position! You look at me now, viewing me as a monster, when it is you who condemned a soul to a non-life!'

'Not this again,' The Doctor growing tired of the bipolar attitude exhibited by the Monk. 'You said yourself that it was a malfunction! You likely made things worse in your halfbrained attempt at rummaging through the internal parts of the ship!'

The Doctor's hostility, understandable as it may be, is deemed over the line to the manic Monk. His anger grows increasingly in return, as evident by his vagranty body's language. The Doctor silently becomes more fearful of what the Monk may be capable of, dreading the limits of a desperate Time Lord's wrath.

'On second thought, you know, perhaps it was I who was in the wrong. We're both very civilized creatures, belonging to that of a race highly superior race of beings', the Doctor pleas with a grin. 'Resulting to barbaric measures against one another should be long evolved out of our systems by now. If there is any way I can rectify this situation, please let me know.'

The Monk loosened his stiff stature once more, calming considerably. 'If you believe you can possibly repair the directional control to some degree, allowing my TARDIS to land,' the Monk replies.

'Oh, but of course', the Doctor says with a smile, 'I am quite handy when it comes to fixing things!' The Doctor then proceeds to pull out his Sonic Screwdriver once more, before shuffling his feet closer to the console control column. 'Quite a nice scheme you have going for your ship's interior, I must say', the Doctor notes to the Monk.

'It's not displeasing to the eye, nor my style', the Monk snaps back, 'this is another of your accidental doings. Your removing of my TARDIS' Chameleon Circuit caused the entire interior of my ship to change form in accordance with the time period, instead of the exterior!'

The Doctor, dropping to the floor and sliding his body under the console, gives a loud chuckle, 'With all these malfunctions due to missing or broken parts, your TARDIS is making mine look top of the line more and more!'

This quick remark struck a nerve in the Monk's mind, a nerve not touched upon in such a long time that he thought it gone from his person completely. The Monk's eyes gleamed with a hint of meddling, a devious plan churning in his skull.

'That bottom section pops open, I believe that's the source of our problems', the Monk tells the Doctor, prompting him to follow his directions and begin inspecting the inner cabinet located below the console.

'Ah yes indeed, thank you', the Doctor says before returning to his work. With his head deep within the bowels of the console control column, the Doctor is completely unaware as the Monk makes a mad dash for the exit door. His weary legs almost buckling as he makes no haste in attempting a frantic escape. Making his way deep into the TARDIS, until eventually finding the blue police box belonging to the Doctor. The door is unlocked, allowing the Monk free entrance into the Doctor's TARDIS. He wastes no time in grabbing the console control and making the machine dematerialize, caring not where or when he ends up, but as long as he flees his own immortal prison.

Back in the Monk's console room, the Doctor finishes up his civic duty to the Monk. The Sonic Screwdriver's loud whirring halts, and the Doctor pulls himself out from under the control column. 'There, all finished, good as new...', the Doctor speaks aloud, before noticing he's talking to himself. Feigning surprise, the Doctor gives a false gasp, 'Oh dear, he's gone. Hopefully to wash up.' The Doctor wipes his hands clean of the grease and dust having come off on him during the console repair. 'Dust?', he wonders, 'Unusual... Nevermind, I've been curious as to where the Monk was headed when his TARIDS malfunctioned'. A quick flip of a knob and a small display readout appears on the nearby viewing screen. 'Fascinating', the Doctor remarks to himself, 'no wonder he ended up floating between dimensions like a cosmic pariah! He foolishly attempted to land his TARDIS inside my own!'

Speaking of the Doctor's TARDIS, it finally comes to a materialized halt, landing in a massive shadowed hall. The Monk steps out from within, his movements and mannerisms unknowingly mimicking the Doctor's own just previously. Turning his head about haphazardly, searching for any signs of life around him, the Monk then proceeds to shuffle his sandals against the obsidian black floor beneath his feet. He begins to notice the structured design of the pillars supporting the cathedrally high ceiling above him in the room at the end of the hall. The lights gleam low, centered around a few circular metallic discs embedded in the walls. The Monk's eyes, adjusting to his first change of setting in quite some time, squint deeply as he stares at the shape of the symbol on one disc. His eyes quickly stretch wide upon realization.

'The Seal of Rassilion?!', the Monk cries, 'No... No, this is impossible! The Doctor hates his home world as much as I do! He wouldn't, couldn't trick me into returning here unless....'

The Monk's words trail off as the distinctive 'whooshing' dematerilzation sound of the Doctor's TARDIS echoes down the corridor. The Monk's weary bones can barely react in time to take him in the direction of where he left the TARDIS, causing him to collapse to his knees on the hard onyx floor as he witnessed his only chance of escaping vanish from view. The Monk buries his fingers into his mangy scalp in defeat, laying still on the ground without a care to move. He listens as the sound of footsteps begin to approach from behind him, but even that gives him no motivation to flee. Having spent so much time yearning for a release from a prison of his own meddlesome making, the Monk desperately tried in vain to end his nigh-immortal life. Now, thanks to the Doctor, he just may have received both those goals achieved in the matter of moments. The Monk muses on this quietly, as two agents of the Celestial Intervention Agency pick him up and drag him away.

Inside the Monk's former TARDIS console room, the Doctor holds a small Stattenheim Remote between his fingers, with his hand raised in the air. Whistling, using his other hand, the Doctor's actions cause his own familiar blue police box to rematerilze before him.

'Looks like the fringe benefits of working for a cosmic corporation outweighs to the duties entailed', the Doctor remarks to himself.

After flipping a switch on the Monk's TARDIS console controls, the Doctor races into his own, wasting no time in dematerializing. Once he's safely floating between time and space once more, the Doctor retrieves his 500 Year Diary from the arm of his chair, and exits his console room. Strolling down, deep into the heart of his ship, the Doctor pauses at a large empty space. Tapping his shoe, pulling out his timepiece, before a whirring noise suddenly fills the area around him. The empty space is instantly filled with a wall and door before him. The Doctor opens the door gently, and pokes his head inside. The newly formed room appears to be that of the Monk's former TARDIS console room, albeit without the messy wall decorations. The Doctor waltzes in, heads for the main control console, and manipulate a few parts with ease. Giving an overview of his new dwellings, the Doctor smiles widely and exhales loudly. Removing his Diary from his coat, he begins to fill in a new entry.

'I'm overwhelmed about how simple reconfiguring the Monk's TARDIS was. A slight restructuring to shrink it into just the one room, minor rigging it to act only as secondary controls to my own TARDIS, and viola! A well-needed change of scenery! Though it is a shame to waste it, like the Monk, alone and secluded. I wonder if the CIA would mind my picking up a few "assistants" to aid me in my tasks? They sure didn't mind my pit-stop to visit the Brigadier, so what harm could there be in traveling with Jamie, Victoria, Ben, Polly, or even Zoe again? Guess we soon shall see just how far my limitations in this temporary job are.'

The Doctor continues scribbling in his Diary, as meanwhile across the reaches of time and space, the Monk becomes acquainted with his new home. The tiny cell, consisting of only a wall of electric bars, surrounds the Monk, hindering his movement heavily. He can only stand and hang his hairy head low, awaiting a trial before the High Council of Gallifrey, he believes. Closing his eyes and beginning another mental hibernation, the Monk begins to drift out of consciousness. Or rather, he tries to, before being awoken by an agent of the Celestial Intervention Agency.

'It may please you to know', the uniformly attired man says to the Monk, 'That the Doctor's success in returning you to your race was in your own benefit.'

The Monk's head rose rapidly, 'What are you blathering about?'

'He believes you were returned to us because you are rogue, and that your suspension between dimensions may have been dangerous to the time stream. Nothing could be further from the truth. In actuality, he merely helped give us the one disposable tool with which the Celestial Intervention Agency can ensure he not flee his impending exile. Insurance, if you will.'

'You mean, you're going to use me and my hatred for the Doctor, as a way of cleaning up this entire blasted operation once it's through?'

'In a lack of detailed terms.... Yes.'

The Monk grows silent, contemplating if he cared more about what would be in this for him or if he wished to ruin the Doctor's life permanently. His pondering lasts not long at all.

'Do we have a deal, or would you rather be put on trial for time meddling?', the agent queried.

The Monk stands tall and whips his hand around, narrowly missing a charging jolt by bumping it against the electric bars, as it reaches his forehead. 'Yes, sir!', the Monk saluted, with a devilish look on his face.

'Good. Further instructions will arrive for you in due time. When the moment is at hand, you'll be given a new TARDIS with which to confront the Doctor with.'

'But, why can you not just me my previous TARDIS back? I'd grown rather fond of it, in a twisted sort of way.'

'Because. The Doctor did some renovations on it and turned it into a new console room for his own.'

The Monk belted out a hearty laugh, 'Then it looks like my destruction of the Doctor has already begun!'

'Whatever do you mean, you insane riffraff?', the agent asked sternly.

'In one of my many attempts to end my endless life aboard my time-wrecked TARDIS, I removed and devoured the mechanism that supports temporal grace! Without it, I began to age physically at a slightly accelerated rate. Thus accounting for my present unshaven and foul look. By the time the Doctor notices this fault in his new console room, it'll be far too late, and he'll be an old, brittle man once more!'

A smile came over the CIA agent's goatee-chined face as he joined in with laughter just as evil as that erupting from the Monk. 'I'm starting to like you, Monk. You really know how to master your own destiny!'

The agent turned and marched off suddenly, leaving the Monk alone in his single, cramped cell. The sound of the Monk's laughter would echo throughout the halls of the Celestial Intervention Agency for some time. His latest meddling, though accidental, enough cause for joy in his darkened pair of hearts.

What could seem like vibrations from the Monk's echoing laughter came in the form of shivers to the Doctor's spine. This causes him to cease writing in his Diary, and casually glance over at a small mirror adorning the wooden and brass console controls. Witnessing what seems to be a grey hair forming on his mop of black hair, the Doctor is stunned.

'A single strand? But that's impossible!', the Doctor gasps aloud, 'And is that a new wrinkle?! Oh deary me, it looks like my regeneration hasn't halted as completely as they lead me to believe!' The Doctor can only let out an exasperated sigh, his black (and gradually forming grey) moppy hair flying up a tad in the wake of his release of breath.


End file.
